


Wrapped Up in Dissonance

by secret_stories



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:52:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_stories/pseuds/secret_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beth survives and wants to live, Daryl is surviving but doesn't see the point of living. It's going to take a long time and both will change on the journey to find each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End of the After

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to A LOT of Ben Howard today hence loads of lyrics cropping up in this story! This moves between Beth and Daryl's POV.

Was it always this heavy? This steady weight in these tired arms. Did they always feel so weak? Holding this familiar pose, this weapon, this armour. Surely these muscles were stronger once, surely the ache deep in these shoulders wasn’t there, surely it was never this heavy. There was never this much to carry, never this much to drag along in this constant never ending thumping droll of days drudging by in sweaty weak monotony. Surely it never felt like this. It never felt this hard, surviving. Not living anymore, barely surviving. Scratching an existence, scraping by. Surely it used to be easier than this. So tired, always so tired, was it always like this?

 

He can’t remember, won’t let himself remember back, back to when there was peace, back when these arms were strong, back when they held onto this lifeline of a weapon for a reason. Those days back then, those days that flew by, that lasted a lifetime, that changed everything. It’s all a blur now, those flickering nights, those nights where he found peace at last. Who knew? Who knew that that was where he would find it? Where that constant pounding fucking awful need to survive finally meant something. He can’t let himself remember that now. Only this aching pain in weak arms, weak muscles, weak mind that never falters as he holds this bow. Was it always this heavy?

 

* * *

 

Deafening, thudding, deafening racket of pounding thuds comes screaming through the darkness. It won’t stop, it won’t stop. The banging grows louder, filling everything, every part of this fractured mind, filling everything with pain. It is so loud now, so loud that she can’t believe it. There is no room for thought, no room for anything other than the aching thud roaring through fog and mist and chaos. It is so loud.

 

A breath, sweet air, the taste of life itself hissing in and pushing the sound down, pushing it back to a more manageable distance. Still darkness, only darkness now with ragged breaths shuddering through the pain and the pounding thudding behind everything. Is this what it is to be alive?

 

How long does this last? Was it always this hard? Was the act of sucking in these deep coarse gusts what breathing always was? Surely it used to be easier, the easiest thing in the world. She can’t remember, all there is now is the thudding and the breaths.

 

Slowly, it could have been years, years of this black hell, this deafening cacophony of thudding that burns and itches and taunts with every beat, slowly there are thoughts. Tiny pricks of light, like stars, she thinks. This is first thought, the stars. She remembers the stars. She remembers the cool night air and the feel of grass and a time when there was something other than pain. She remembers the dew, the moist feel of the green blades on her bare arms as she lay bathed in moonlight staring at the stars. She remembers the sounds of the night, the music of the crickets and the whisper of the trees. She remembers the warmth of her sisters soft skin next to hers.

 

This breath is deeper than the others, this breath hits something inside, somewhere deep. It floods her, the air burns away at some part in her chest. The pricks of light burst together in a flare of stars that sear her vision. Was it always this painful? Did light always scorch and scar and bring the pounding from outside inside? That pounding, that deafening sound, the thudding that screeched through everything she was. It was all around and inside now, it became her, it was her. It was her. She knew then, that noise, that noise that was too loud to be, wasn’t. It wasn’t the sound of death screaming at her, it wasn’t the sound of angry fists beating a rhythm on a heavy door. It was her heart. So small, so insignificant, no one else would be able to hear it, this roar that was the sound of life.

 

* * *

 

No one has asked, no one has come close to the nothingness that consumes him now. He moves with them, he fights with them, he provides for them. He does all this. He feels nothing, he feels nothing but the ache deep inside as his strength fails. Everyday it ebbs away a little more, sneaking down into the earth, trickling out into the darkness as he stares at the stars. His feet aren’t as quiet now he thinks, every step is like a thundering stomp through leaves and dirt and the dust that is this world. How don’t they hear it? How do those animals in the quiet endless forest lose their lives to his bow, his bow held aloft in these weak arms. Has the world gone mad? Have the animals lost all sense of sanity and time and space and strength and meaning? No one has mentioned it. No one has called him out on his deafening footsteps, on his arms that feel like lead and jelly at the same time. Is it just him? Has the world gone mad? Or is it me? This thought shuttles around his weak mind, through his aching limbs, hits the ground with every thudding footstep.

 

They move now, they move every day all day, always moving. This is what hell is, surely, this drag, this drag of feet and wheels and engines. This drag of life. He feels it occasionally, their gaze a palpable weight settling down on top of what he already carries, what his back threatens to break under, shatter and crack like the old man he is. Did he always feel this old? He follows blindly, uncaring. There will be no more opinions from him, not after everything. He will blunder on, behind these people, blunder on through this hell.

 

The nights are the worst, the nights where the quiet descends and those sleeping breaths around him merge into one. Where the weight of her laughter echoes through his empty head, the weight of the world. Those fumbled words, those flickering nights. He will not remember. The stars mock him now, their gaze a twinkling massacre of death in the dark. They are all dead, he knows that. Their light carries on, carries on though they have long burnt out. He puts it away. He has to put it away. Did sleep always hurt this much? This is it now, the end of the after. This is what life is now, he focuses on the aches, on the pain.

 

 

 


	2. Lost in the insignifigance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth leaves the car she has woken in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is all from Beth, I know it's slow, I'm going for a whole rebirth really and that takes time but maybe it's too slow. I don't know!
> 
> I had already given up on this story as I didn't think anyone was all that keen but here's another chapter! We shall see how it goes.

When the light turns into colours and shapes, splintering and reforming, shattering and swirling, she remembers day. She remembers the sun and the warm tickling of the life giving heat on pale skin. She remembers skipping and laughing and the catch of the yellow, golden, reds, oranges colours fluttering through leaves, flowers, grass. She remembers the feel of rough wood and the smell of hay, the quiet sound of whickering horses, their gentle movements causing dust motes to twist and dance in the glorious sunshine. She remembers the farm. The feeling of homing home, the feeling of comfort and all the enveloping love of that white house, the house that had been in the family for centuries.

 

The soft fluttering of eyelashes on cheeks, her eyes, blue and unfocused open and close trying to make the world something logical, trying to force some relation between these fractured thoughts and what her tired eyes are seeing. There is no hay here, no horses, no farm. There is dust though, swirling in its un ending dance through the light. Not as strong as she thought, definitely day light, but not like her memory, not bright and clear and clean. This light is softer, muffled, dulled and muddied before it reaches her. She is warm though, unbearably so. There in front of her, she can see a shape, dark and solid, and next to it, another. It takes a long time for them to clear, to become something identifiable. She remembers journeys, journeys with her family, journeys to visit her sister, the sister with the soft skin against her arm. She remembers the quiet country music and the smell of air freshener swinging in the window. Pine. The feel of the engine, the slight bumps in the road, the light through windows, the world rushing by in blue and green. She remembers those shapes she see in front of her, those shapes of the two front seats as she lay down in the back to sleep away the journey to her sister. Her sister with the soft skin.

 

This car is still, there is no rumbling engine, no pine smell. Only must and dust and blood. She realises now, blood over everything, blood in her mouth, sharp, bitter. With a shudder she gags, lurching with a cough that racks through her broken body and lurches her through the dust causing the motes to move in frantic shapes. Movement, harsh and painful, so painful, it brings the thumping pounding back again, back louder and heavier and harsher than before. The shapes jump and twist and collide in colour and sound before her and it would be beautiful if it didn’t hurt so much. She thinks this sharply, it pounds with every beat, don’t you think it’s beautiful? It is, beauty is pain she thinks and she remembers, she remembers beauty. She remembers green eyes and blue eyes and kind smiles and sweet words. She remembers pretty petals, covered in dew, sunshine caught in rainbows on the delicate flowers in a meandering meadow. She remembers beauty in sound, music that jumps and starts and flows and shudders full of sorrow and heart and love and life. She remembers her voice, clear and sweet, floating through the firelight as bright moist eyes gazed through the darkness. She remembers the pride she felt, happiness, the smoke stinging and the relief and fleeting calm, the finality of their temporary moment of peace. She remembers her voice.

 

Coughing now, the racking breaths move her up, everything shifts as the dusty car she finds herself in becomes more, becomes real and unbelievable. Eyes flutter and adjust as the seats in front become real, this is the present, this is now, this is after. There are no comforting sounds here, no loving parents, no green eyed soft skinned sister at the end of the road. Only her, only her and her pain. The car is empty. After another century, after realisation and hope and defeat, she moves her hand, fingers grasp and twitch and stroke worn seats before moving up in front of her eyes. This is her hand, this pale skin stretched over bones, so small, so frail, so strong. This is her hand. The other joins it, flexing and turning and exploring the space. The car is empty, there is nothing here, only quiet dust, only muted sunlight twisting through murky windows.

 

As she moves, shifting in her seat, something rubs, something beneath her. She looks down at herself, this is her. Her worn jeans, so dirty, so used. This yellow fabric, is it yellow? Surely it used to look better than this? Fingers dance over the faded top, remembering the pleasure and pain of discovering something new and unmarred only to have it as gruesomely tainted as the world moments later.

 

She focuses on her breathing; rapid and sharp as panic rises in her chest, fills the gaping hole inside her with hot bitter fear. What is this? Where is she? Eyes darting in a frantic rave through hollowed sockets. Closing them again, darkness again, that helps, darkness and breathing again. In and out, calm. You said you could take care of yourself. You did. The breaths come slower, come easier, she puts all she has into that steady rhythm. Her hand rests on her chest, feels the rise and fall, feels the life, feels the slowing beat there, just under the skin, under bone, carrying on. She remembers another beat, another breath, quiet and steady beside her in the dark. The feel of leather and grime, the deep pulls of air in and out beside her in the shadowy forest. The comfort of that sound, the comfort of knowing it was there, that heart beat. That beat that meant Everything. Eyelids open again, suddenly this time, jarring with the realisation that there is only her, there is no comforting breath beside her. That everything, that Everything is gone. The panic rises again as the strained broken body forces itself up; the world twists in light and colour as she moves to sit, leaning against the hot glass behind her. Blonde hair presses again the muck there, leaving a trail of light in its wake. There, that is the source of the pain. Hands flutter lightly up to feel the curls, greasy and knotted, tangled and torn like everything else. They come away dark, not wet exactly but sticky and congealed. It was red once, it was blood, blood matted together and knitted and trying to heal, trying to piece together what was, just like everything else.

 

Sniffing, her hands move more steadily now, down to her belt, there should be a knife there, she knows, there nestled against that worn and cracked leather. The knife that meant protection, that meant courage and fear thrown together in a fierce battle of morality and rage and choice. There was never a choice, not really. The knife was always poised, always ready, she never had a choice. The world is cruel, it is bitter and dark and broken like her. She remembers the fear, the panic that ate her up until there was no choice. Fight or flight, but it always came down to fight. She remembers the dead. This is their world now, their brutal world where everything is changed, where the choice was taken away. Shifting, the car creaks, the dust twirling and fidgeting as she grasps the chair in front of her to move, to heave, to force herself to face the door. This can’t be it, there is so much death out there, not in here, but this can’t be it. It takes too long, was it always this hard to move? The leather of the seat sticks and slicks against sweat and grime and skin and one hand touches the handle of the door, it is hard and solid, the nails gripping it are short and torn as they pull inwards. Rusted hinges groan into the silence, bursting light through the widening gap, a breeze blowing through, whispering across hot skin and fluttering blonde hair. She breathes deeply, fresh, it feels fresh. This is real air, not this musty baked tomb.

 

It is jarred, it is staggering, the movement from the tin can where she woke, hands on the frame, pulling up and shaking at the effort. Her body is so heavy. You’re heavier than you look. Then she is on the ground, the tarmac meeting her hands in a warm embrace. Convulsing, the coughs come, harsh and loud and racking, bringing the pounding through her shattered thoughts as she kneels there on the quiet road, blonde matted mess hanging over one shoulder, car door open, golden light flickering through leaves overhead. This is the world, and it is beautiful.


	3. Caught up in empathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Daryl chapter.

It is the day of the storm that breathes life back into the broken man. The day the weary, shattered group huddle beneath the boards and beams that make up this ramshackle barn, where old straw and fear fill the air as darkness floods the sky. The clouds leech the colour from the sun, rolling and twisting and curling across the light, turning the world to grey and black as shadows crawl from the trees to sweep through the cracks of their shelter. The thunder and lighting crashes and breaks, bringing the rain that the heat has called for, down in sheets, drumming and thudding and flooding as it lands. He stands guard, watching the world burn in white and black as cracks through the night flash and scream across the quiet landscape.

 

The sounds draw the dead into the open, they are riled and confused, wondering and lost like the hiding family in the barn. He sees them through the wooden boards, across the field, aimlessly creeping through grass and trees and distance. Fanning out in places, small groups in others. This must be what the world looks like, this ceaseless dead, searching for more death to create, to consume. They stay quiet; still, waiting for the storm to end, for the dead to drift away, they haven’t been noticed. They can wait this one out.

 

How long since a storm like this came through? He can’t remember, won’t let himself remember that night, that long awful night. Every roll of thunder, every distant moan from the dead ones brings it back, brings it shrieking back and he tries to block it out but he can’t. All he can see is the dark trunk, the raised bow, the slit of darkness turning to light, the bounce of the walkers bumping and shoving their way past, and her. Most of all her. In that dark hell, her feet under his legs, her shins against him, crushed together in that tiny space. Her, she was there, so close to him, the whole night she was there. He didn’t even look at her. He can’t do this, can’t think of her but that’s all there is as he looks through this gap at the night outside.

 

That’s when Judith screams. Her tiny lungs bellow the sound out, echoing through the barn, echoing through the darkness, cutting through the rain, the wind, the lightning. They try to calm her, try to sooth the girl, the baby that meant so much to her. She would be able to calm her, the thought rattles through him. No. Can’t think that. She’s not here. She will never be here. Carol takes her, standing and shushing and swaying and still she screams. The panic rises in the small space, the dust moves frantically now as bodies move to the edges, eyes pressing against the slats, searching for the inevitable threat. Still she screams. They come, of course they come. The thunder that brought them wondering has scattered them, they come from every direction, they come to that little girl’s screams.

 

When the first thud pounds at the weak wall they are ready, they are as ready as they can be, poised with weapons drawn, looking at each other and back to the threat. They stab through the gaps, they are quiet, they are quick. Judith has calmed, finally, she snuffles at Carol’s chest. Those weak sounds, those sounds of that baby girl, the girl that was always on her hip, they are all he hears as he fights into the night, through the cracks, through their skulls. He hears nothing but her, nothing but her when she screeches again, suddenly. It jars him, that sound, he turns wildly, there, the door is down. Carol fights one handed at the small hoard that presses into their temporary sanctuary.

 

Wet from the rain they come, through the thunder and the flashing white that sheets through the darkness. They light up in staccato as one mass, one lurching, groaning mass. He is there in an instant, there through the grasping hands, with bow and knife and heat and will. Carol stumbles, the others are there now, they fight in the screeching light and then she stumbles, she falls, so slowly, down to one knee and Judith is lost, lost among those dead feet. Carol is still fighting, still fighting on her knees and Rick hasn’t seen and no one but him has seen the baby girl has gone and he is fighting harder than he ever has and is down after her, his body pressing through the dead, crushing and slashing and cutting them down like butter and all he can hear is her whimpering, her whimpering in the dark but there is no sound now, no sound but the pounding in his ears as he scrambles on the hay covered floor.

 

The thumping is deafening now and the legs around him are wet and there, he sees her there. She is screaming again, he can see her mouth screaming, her tiny chest heaving, arms grasping and all he can hear is the pounding and they have seen her, they bend and move, grasping at her soft skin. Reaching, reaching and he has her, her soft cardigan and he pulls and now she’s on his chest and squirming and crying and now he can hear. The groaning and the growling of the dead and the shouts and the grunts of the living and as he rises he carries on fighting.

 

It is a blur, so fast, so slow and by the time the rain has stopped the fight is over. She is there, safe and warm and uncomfortable and unhappy and bruised but unbitten, safe in his arms. These arms that feel strong again, his chest is heaving, his mind is a blank but he feels strong, for the first time since he lost her. Rick is there then, taking her, Carol is crying, everyone is moving, out into the night with muttered thanks and grasps and tears but there is no time for more. No one is lost this time, somehow. Into the darkness they go again, across the damp grass, through the night to find another place to hide. This is the world, and it is ugly.


End file.
